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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527028">Death is the Wish of Some</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack'>mangacrack</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Trials of Revision [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Developing Relationships, Fall of Gondolin, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Role Reversal, Trauma, Unreliable Narrator</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 11:59:40</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,417</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22527028</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/mangacrack/pseuds/mangacrack</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Princess Idril disappears from Gondolin along with Lord Glorfindel. Many assume they have run away together. Months later, Maeglin finds his cousin stumbling through the wild.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Maeglin | Lómion &amp; Turgon of Gondolin, Maeglin | Lómion/Tuor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Trials of Revision [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/955542</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>2020 My Slashy Valentine</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Blood of my Hands</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narya_Flame/gifts">Narya (Narya_Flame)</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Author Notes:</b> So ... exactly two years ago I wrote a fic for you and never finished the series I made out of it. When I learned that was blessed to write for you <i>again</i>, my muse had an insane idea. I may have taken your list of broad story elements and ran away with it. </p><p>~ * ~</p><p>If you wish to read the first two stories, go ahead. They merely establish Maeglin/Tuor into the story. The second part is Tuor dealing with his dark past and therefore being irrelevant to the larger picture. </p><p>~ * ~</p><p><b>Warnings:</b> If you have read the Silmarillion, nothing in this fic should shock or trigger you. </p><p><b>Timeline:</b> After so many years you would think I'd know the First Age History by heart. Instead, I take Tolkien's Gateway as reference, as usual. Meaning, everything up to Tuor coming to Gondolin in 496 is canon. Meaning, Nargothrond has fallen, the Nirnaeth has happened and Turgon is HighKing (in theory, I am taking liberties with that)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p></p><blockquote>
  <p class="western">
    <em> Death is the wish of some,<br/>the Relief of Many<br/>and the End of All. </em>
  </p>
  <p class="western"> </p>
</blockquote><hr/><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">Her bare feet are bleeding. They are swollen and the blisters on her soles are infected. Pain stabs her with every step, every time she hits the sharp edge of a stone. A grim journey lies behind her, bloody steps on cold stone leaving a distinct trial for any pursuers to find.</p><p class="western">Idril grinds her teeth and pulls herself across the hillside. Roots and burrows have her stumbling, scratching her knees further. Her calves are thin, her once lovely pale flesh eaten away by hunger and horrors. Dirt hides the bruises on them and, hopefully, her scent from wargs. Last night she pressed herself into a tiny cave, which was barely more than a bulge she hid behind. It had the width of an aspen, the freezing wind tearing at the brown bag she wore to cover herself.</p><p class="western">Her fingers slip as she clings to a rock in the attempt to pull herself up. She drops a few feet, sobbing but stifling her cry as her fall leaves another deep dash on her forearm.</p><p class="western">"Just a bit more," Idril whispers to herself. Her arms tremble as she finally scrambles over the edge somehow. "We came this far, we can make the rest of the journey."</p><p class="western">She tries to convince her fraying mind that she doesn’t mind the rain. The mud makes it difficult to find her footing, as she descends on the other side of the mountain she just climbed, but at least the streams and puddles collecting the drops from above gift her with nourishment. Idril does not complain as she lowers her head and drinks the brown water, thirsty after hours of wandering.</p><p class="western">"Drink," she tells her silent companion. He has not spoken to her for days, but she figures he is as tired as she is. "Please, it cannot be far. I recognize the mountains."</p><p class="western">The last sentence is a lie. They all look the same to her.</p><p class="western">The sun above her, finally no longer hidden behind thick fogs and storm clouds, burns her neck but provides her with a general sense of direction. It's <em> away, away, away ... </em>and it has been for weeks. Or months, there’s no telling really. The seasons are endless in the wild, barely-changing landscape.</p><p class="western">When her stomach grumbles, Idril pulls dry roots from the ground. They make a coarse meal, but still sate her stomach for a while. When they first began walking, she had feared she would starve because it looked as if there was simply nothing on the wide dusty plain that just shoved sand down her throat every time she opened her mouth. So, by the time they reached the mountains, her stomach accepted anything resembling food.</p><p class="western">In fact, by now it grumbles very little about the bark and the old meat that Idril finds on forgotten bones.</p><p class="western">"We have to go on. It is dangerous to linger," Idril says, addressing her companion. He remains mute, trailing behind her like a faithful servant.</p><p class="western">Still, it requires great effort to pull herself up again. Resuming the walk is difficult, for each hour burns her muscles and the approaching night brings chills and shivers.</p><p class="western">She would like to sing for herself and her companion, but Idril has forgotten the words to any song that would lighten their way. The black dust down her throat turned her voice to shrill screams weeks ago and she is not sure that her companion can even hear her. He appears deaf and mute, a shadow of his former self.</p><p class="western">Besides, any song would do little but announce their presence to their enemies. There should not be any, for they have been alone for miles and weeks, turning this journey into a far greater trail than the years on the ice, but still. There are always enemies somewhere.</p><p class="western">Idril looks back on those memories of the Ice with fondness now. At least then, she still had Ammë and Atar, Aunt Irissë and her uncles. Her steadfast grandfather, making sure she received food and shelter and a place on the few wagons. But now they are all dust, scattered in the winds that howl about her as she marches on.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">Terrible voices reach her ears that night. Knives gleam in the pale moonlight and harsh commands surround her. Idril fights with little strength she has left, screaming at Glorfindel to leave her. To run and find freedom.</p><p class="western">But the Elf Lord is distant, his eyes betraying no emotions as horses bar her way to escape.</p><p class="western">Tall people with stern faces, hidden in the dark and behind hooded masks, grasp her shoulders. Two, four, then six. Keeping her immobile, holding her at her ankles with ease. One large hand is enough to trap her slim wrists.</p><p class="western">"Gag her, we cannot have her waking the shadows," is the last thing she hears before her eyes roll back into her head. Idril is glad, though she knows she will wake to blood between her legs. Escaping awareness is a mercy, though.</p><p class="western">Glorfindel will tell her what happened, later. He remains her watchful protector, never leaving but always silently judging.</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">The tall bright towers are terrifying. Dungeons and darkness she is familiar with. Her memories struggle against the onslaught of impressions.</p><p class="western">Idril buries her broken nails in the horse’s mane and keeps her chin on her chest. Without the strong rider behind her, holding her with one arm around her waist, she would have fallen off. She takes it quietly, glad she is no longer thrown over the saddle like a bundle.</p><p class="western">One scream, one word from her and her captors proceeded with caution. The swelling around her midsection is small, but enough to give them pause.</p><p class="western">With the cloak around her shoulders and its hood pulled up, Idril cannot see Glorfindel anywhere.</p><p class="western">She rubs her tired eyes. The rope around her wrists cut into her skin, but the pain grounds her.</p><p class="western">"Laurefindel, answer me," Idril whimpers as the gates close behind them. "Glorfindel, are you with me?"</p><p class="western">The Lord of the Golden Flower does not answer. Idril has already forgotten he has fallen silent a long time ago.</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">
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</p><hr/><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">A century of practice allows Maeglin and his troops enter the city unseen. The valley of Tumladen is vast enough to allow some space for the citizens of Gondolin, although guards have been posted along the gates. When Maeglin fashioned the Gate of Steel, he long laboured on the outskirts, so he is well familiar with their walls. They are meant as defence against the Enemy, build after they returned from the last great battle of Beleriand where the High King Findekáno had been slain.</p><p class="western">Along with thousands of others.</p><p class="western">Maeglin transmits the password the guards on top of the wall. The crossbars, thick as oaks and impenetrable, open after a few minutes. The entire time Maeglin keeps Aeglos in his peripheral vision. Three riders flank him on all sides, covering him and his passenger.</p><p class="western">To his great satisfaction they do not break rank, and instead they shield Aeglos despite the safety of the city within arms reach.</p><p class="western">Grim is his expression when Maeglin glances to the thin, broken Elf that used to be his cousin. Her screams had stopped immediately when she passed out. His first survey established that she retreated into her mind, shutting the world out. Even without delving deeper, he senses the horror that lies beneath, buried on the ground of her psyche like bones sunken to the bottom of a lake.</p><p class="western">"Where should we go next, Lord Angannon?" One of the guards asks.</p><p class="western">This particular guard has been on many patrols with Maeglin, transferring from the mines after King Turgon ordered to strengthen the borders. He appears just as determined to bring Idril back home, old enough to remember what happened to the first Princess of Gondolin.</p><p class="western"><em> Good question, </em>Maeglin thinks. His mood sours. On their way back he had been too occupied to cover their tracks, instead concentrating on the task of returning alive and unseen. But now, with Gondolin rising above them, its shadow growing with each mile they cross, he wonders which Lords he can trust.</p><p class="western">At his father Eöl’s arrival, the dark elf had brought chaos with him, breaking through the protections around Gondolin far too easily. The uproar afterwards had revealed the disorganization between the Houses of the Gondolindrim. However, this was a comprehension that featured only many years after the dust had settled around Maeglin's new, empty life.</p><p class="western">"Our main task is to keep the Princess's return a secret. She does not need spectators or gossiping citizens under her window," Maeglin cautions his men and sets a pace that lets any passing Elf believe they returned empty-handed. Idril is invisible, placed under a spell that blurs the air around Aeglos. As long as no one counts the horses, they will attract no attention.</p><p class="western">"Which Lords should be notified upon our return?" Another guard asks, quiet enough that it becomes clear he realizes how important the words are.</p><p class="western">Maeglin thanks the deep earth for the treasure of trusted men he can call upon.</p><p class="western">"First we return to the stables, where Lord Ecthelion will relieve us of our duty. He needs to be told, but I shall be the messenger." The shadow crossing the faces of his men tells Maeglin what they are thinking. "I don't wish him to endanger himself on a fruitless search. For we found the Princess, but I am afraid the same cannot be said for the Lord of the Golden Flower."</p><p class="western">Months ago Lord Glorfindel had vanished along with Princess Idril. First they were believed to have run away together, rumours about a secret affair spreading through the city. Maeglin would have believed the story of the young couple wishing to escape a city filled with jealousy and spite, had it not been for the fact that there is no safe haven to turn to.</p><p class="western">Twenty years ago Hithlum had fallen along with High King Findekáno, and still today the whereabouts of its citizens remain unknown. Tuor brought tales with him when he entered Gondolin. According to him, the lands are empty and any survivors keep to caves.</p><p class="western">The Atan travelled along the coast which provided him with fish, meaning that the wilderness is empty and ravished. Vinyamar, King Turgon's first settlement in Beleriand, is merely a ruin. The Teleri have long since fled.</p><p class="western">Not for the first time fear strikes Maeglin's guts. He has never been happy with his life in Gondolin after the events surrounding his arrival. Idril's fate, highlighting the fact that there <em> are </em>no sanctuaries left for hundreds of miles in all directions, discloses just how exposed Gondolin truly is.</p><p class="western">With no contact to the Host of the White Flame, his uncle's stubborn refusal to send word to the Fëanorians, the Kingdom of Doriath is the only Elven settlement they could reach out to. But Menegroth is far away, and besides - with the Mountains of Ered Gorgoroth and the corridor of Nan Dungortheb between them, assistance is nothing more than a dream.</p><p class="western">"After I have spoken with Lord Ecthelion, we ride to the palace. Discreetly, of course. Officially, we will be off duty by then. This will allow us to approach Lord Egalmoth undetected." Maeglin emphasizes the last word. And if his men draw their conclusions about him relying on the same men who once lost Princess Irissë, they keep their silence.</p><p class="western">Maeglin has his reasons, though. With Lord Glorfindel's disappearance, these two threw all their efforts into the attempts of finding his cousin. Alongside with Rog, Maeglin's co-worker and closest friend in this city, they had enough weight to decide the vote. The King, in his worry for his daughter, allowed the four united Lords to act nearly unsupervised. It did not change their daily routine anymore the tragedy already had, but they no longer had to run their decisions by the King either.</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
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</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">They ride on toward Gondolin in silence. Aeglos gestures every quarter hour how Idril fares, but so far there is no change.</p><p class="western">Maeglin is glad. The lack of response can be cause for worry later. Right now, he is willing to nudge her back to sleep every time her mind stirs. Her eyelashes flutter the one time they take a break and Aeglos stops his horse long enough for Maeglin to check up on her.</p><p class="western">The conclusion remains the same. There is nothing that they can do for her.</p><p class="western">Not yet.</p><p class="western">With a worried expression, Maeglin guides his men around the walls and gains unquestioned entrance to the palace. Seated upon his horse, dressed in armour and with Anguirel shining on his back like a beacon, he demands the attention of a Prince. The picture he presents undoubtedly will colour his reputation. During the last few months, his image has been compared more and more to his deceased grandfather.</p><p class="western">The statue of Nolofinwë and the grave that Turgon erected in the memory of his father help his cause. If Maeglin makes the effort to look more like his grandfather, using the late High King's fame to get his way and control a portion of the city, then it's no ones business but his own.</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">Ecthelion, praised for his plays before the fountains, is crestfallen when Maeglin tells him the news. His bright glance dims, the last hope that he has been clinging to for the last few months evaporating like a drop of water in the summer heat.</p><p class="western">"He is dead, isn't he? You found Idril but not Laurefindil, so there is no use in further searching for him." But even Ecthelion's bleak words barely express the despair and the guilt whirling in his eyes.</p><p class="western">"Considering the alternative, I hope Lord Glorfindel found the Halls of Mandos without delay." Maeglin's voice is distant, his expression devoid of emotion. There is no time for grief rendering him powerless.</p><p class="western">Glorfindel was his friend too. Not as close as Rog, whom he cherishes as mentor and friend of common interest. But Maeglin will never forget the Elf who tried to console him after his mother and his father died. The same Elf who begged his forgiveness after the King ordered him to throw Eöl of a cliff.</p><p class="western">When Ecthelion falls into his chair, burying his face in his hands to hide his tears, Maeglin struggles with whether to keep his distance. He hesitates before finally placing a hand on the Elf Lord's shoulder, allowing him a shared moment of silence until Ecthelion regains his composure.</p><p class="western">In the light of Ecthelion taking his lover's death as a likely sacrifice for Lady Idril's life, Maeglin keeps his shameful thoughts to himself.</p><p class="western">
  <em> Should we place wagers who got the short end of the stick? Idril is going to suffer for the rest of her life or Glorfindel, who is lost to us? </em>
</p><p class="western">When he climbs back on his horse, his eyes finding his cousin in the darkness with ease, he feels empty and vulnerable, though his expression betrays nothing.</p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p><p class="western"> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Our Neverworld</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p class="western">Galdor's appearance turns from surprised into a picture of dismay when Maeglin disturbs him in the middle of the night.</p><p class="western">He is not the most regal Elf in Turgon's court. His face is too sharp, his frame too angular, and his eyes turn cat-like unless he makes the effort to settle for a more harmless guise. He is leader of the Folk of the Tree, bannerman to all Grey-Elves in Gondolin, and the first Elf who was not Noldor to gain noble status, granted by Turgon after first meeting him in Vinyamar.</p><p class="western">"Lord Angannon, you have found Lady Idril," the Elf Lord whispers. The princess is a thin bundle in Aeglos' arms where the guard waits behind Maeglin.</p><p class="western">Gaglor’s awe melts into worry. The state of Maeglin's cousin is undeniable, even under her disguise. The light of her fëa is thin, the potential for devastation woven into her spirit like a red thread.</p><p class="western">For Galdor, an Elf born to forests and the wilderness of Beleriand, the currents of shadows throbbing inside Idril's chest is plain, and he can see a clearer cut than what Maeglin is capable of perceiving. Having been born in Nan Elmoth and tasted the waters of freedom for the majority of his journey to adulthood, Maeglin only gained a touch of untamed nature stemming from the depth below Beleriand. He honed in his training with the Dwarves and later through his free access to the mines.</p><p class="western">He is not Galdor, though, who is rooted in magic simply by standing on a patch of grass or hearing the wind's advice through the rustling of the leaves. So he wonders if Galdor sees more of what ails Idril than Maeglin himself can.</p><p class="western">"Please take her to the Healers. Attend to her while I inform the King." And with this Maeglin directs the startled Galdor inside, away from prying eyes.</p><p class="western">Aeglos' march is firm and unshakeable, two sentries behind him. They are tasked to stop anyone from approaching Lady Idril. Through force, if necessary.</p><p class="western">In the dark recesses of his mind, Maeglin hopes they will not need to use force against the King. But he has given the guards leave to do so if needed, in case his uncle's reaction counteracts his daughter's recovery.</p><p class="western">"You are going to...?" Galdor stops mid-sentence. His skill is unquestioned but centuries of living in security and in safety have softened him. Gondolin provides light and warmth - and time to call upon enchantments without risk.</p><p class="western">The prospect of making harsh and sudden decisions frighten him. His usual calm demeanour is overwhelmed by shock.</p><p class="western">Maeglin's own delicate mental capabilities understand the terror that Galdor is reeling from. The Elf has never looked into the spirit of someone who was once a prisoner, unlike Maeglin himself, who belatedly recognized the scars in Eöl's soul for what they were. Understanding brought to him through his relationship with the Atan, Tuor, who appeared at the front gates three years ago with similar burdens on his spirit.</p><p class="western">Idril's spirit shows more damage, even without a proper examination.</p><p class="western">Irritated by Galdor's idleness, Maeglin barks, "Are you volunteering to disturb the King in his chambers and bring him the news of his daughter's return himself?"</p><p class="western">"No," Galdor protests, startled. At Maeglin's furious glare, he mumbles, more quietly now: "No, of course not. You are the one who found the Princess, so he should hear the news from you."</p><p class="western">Galdor is decent enough not to colour the task ahead in a positive light. Maeglin's newfound authority over the city stems from his uncle's understandable distraught reaction. Having lost his wife to the Helcaraxë and his sister to murder in a place that he built as a sanctuary has turned his only child disappearing on a sunny afternoon into a waking nightmare for Turgon.</p><p class="western">Maeglin is grateful to all the benevolent spirits in Arda that Turgon did not insist on accompanying him on his patrols. A sheer miracle caused the King to follow Maeglin's advice of fortifying the city instead. Where denial still reigned despite Tuor's warning, the notion shattered against the idea of what Idril might endure during each day and night she is not found.</p><p class="western">"Good," Maeglin says, scowling. "Notify Duilin after you have brought Idril to the healing wings. Keep her isolated and inform no one else of her return. Anyone who enters her rooms, swear them to secrecy. The public will be told of her rescue at a later date. Under no circumstances can this city turn into a rumour mill."</p><p class="western">"Of course, my Prince." Galdor bows, deeply. and hurries off. This is the first time that he has openly addressed Maeglin as Prince.</p><p class="western">Until today, any wording that had implied Maeglin becoming Turgon's heir had been avoided. Until now Idril's dark expression at any hint of Maeglin inheriting the throne, any title, before her, has always quietened even his loudest supporters.</p><p class="western">Traditionalists and lawmakers argued the case for centuries. Ever since Maeglin set foot into the city, his cousin suffered from the fear that her younger, male cousin would gain Turgon's favour. Or her grandfather's. She spoke against informing Nolofinwë of his daughter's loss, claiming the existence of a child is difficult to prove through a letter alone.</p><p class="western">Back then Idril used Gondolin's secret location as an argument against spreading the word of Maeglin's birth outside Tumladen's borders.</p><p class="western"><em> Now Nolofinwë's corpse watches over a doomed city, </em> Maeglin thinks bitterly, avoiding any thought of his only meeting with his grandfather. <em> All Kingdoms and stronghold north Doriath have been lost. Rumours are even Himring lays abandoned. </em></p><p class="western">A sensible and strategic decision, given the lack of support around the fortress.</p><p class="western">Gut-churning, though, if the last weeks painfully clarified your own hopeless position.</p><p class="western"><em> Lord Maedhros is too far away to help us. </em>Maeglin considers how far south they would have to travel in order to make the risk of riding out worthwhile. He banishes the thought and tries to focus on the task ahead.</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">On first impression the House of the King, the Scarlet Heart, is incredibly beautiful, with a high ceiling with arched slabs and detailed frescoes at trailing down endless hallways. There is also ai theme governing each wing, and most on built even ground leading into a tasteful garden accessible through glazed doors. Curtains made of silk flutter in the windows, dancing to the cool breeze that airs out the wide corridors. There are paintings and statues everywhere.</p><p class="western">Most of his home, Turgon painstakingly decorated or built himself. He paid for artists to draw him things like Alqualondë in the light of Telperion on the wall of his study, but the design is entirely made from his own hand. There are rooms he built completely alone, placing stone for stone upon another.</p><p class="western">For those who do not remember Tirion, Turgon's castle resembles the home of the gods. There are sitting arrangements which carry more gold than most Elves in Middle-earth will see in their long lives.</p><p class="western">Maeglin admits Turgon's home is tasteful, far exceeding his own ... and yet it is a bottomless pit of despair. It took time until he understood why his mother fled. Why even the damp lodge deep in the woods of Nan Elmoth feels more cosy. But he had figured it out eventually.</p><p class="western">There is a chandelier hanging above the staircase, a masterpiece with a thousand candles that cast the hall into golden light. Maeglin has stood at either point many times, witnessing the King and the Princess descend the steps like Manwë breathed life into statues of gold.</p><p class="western">The feeling of unease, which he never found himself able to explain culminated in emptying his stomach one evening, suddenly and without warning. Servants had asked if he was ill and quickly ushered him away to rest, eager to remove any stain from the expensive and hand-knitted carpet. Maeglin vomited twice again this day, comprehension carving its way through his body and getting sick at the thought of having to live with the truth.</p><p class="western">Maeglin never entered Princess Irissë's tomb again. He would rather sit on the dozen tiles that once reflected his mother's blood than lay eyes on her gravesite.</p><p class="western">For there is no difference between the palace and her mausoleum. If it were not for the big coffin in the middle of the room, a visitor would suspect the royal family prefers the chapel as favourite place to take a drawn-out dinner, dining and singing while overlooking Gondolin from a secluded corner of the valley.</p><p class="western">Maeglin feels grim satisfaction when his dirty boots leave tracks on the shining floor and beautiful carpets as long as an oak tree.</p><p class="western">His uncle's home is a memorial, and the King himself is little more than a well-dressed cemetery custodian, maintaining the place he built as a burial site for his family. Or his own past, Maeglin isn't entirely sure which, given that Gondolin was erected when the majority of Finwë's line was still alive.</p><p class="western">He never got to meet any of them.</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">Despite the late hour, Maeglin finds his uncle in his study. Behind his desk, as expected. During his first years in Gondolin he could not decide whether the King preferred leisure over working with his hands. He struggled to connect with a relative who had no craft to call his own. Eöl loomed large in his mind, having started early with Maeglin’s education on everything that was connected to becoming a smith. Besides Eol’s teaching, Maeglin’s mother had also showed him how to sustain himself, being practical and a deep well of knowledge.</p><p class="western">Maeglin mourns that Idril had to vanish for Turgon to change into a person he finally understood.</p><p class="western">The assistants are long gone by now, but the King sits behind his desk as if he hasn’t moved since sunrise. The open doors allow Maeglin to watch his uncle for a moment. Long strands of his hair pour over his back, held together in a high knot with a simple ribbon. Hasty work of a man who definitely did not have his appearance in mind when he dressed himself this morning.</p><p class="western"><em> He wore the same outfit the entire week, </em>Maeglin realizes. He wagers that his uncle doesn't notice how the servants come and swap his clothing as often as they can, wishing to prevent their King running around in the palace looking like a dirty pauper.</p><p class="western">Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, Maeglin knocks twice. The sound rings through the room. Turgon looks up, too occupied with his papers to have noticed his nephew leaning against the door frame until now.</p><p class="western">"You are back!" Turgon's relief is palpable. His blue eyes reflect his fear of losing his last family member as well.</p><p class="western">Long arguments, which the King stood no chance against, forced him to admit he could not imprison Maeglin in Gondolin. His first instinct had been to look for his daughter himself when the initial irritation turned into earnest worry. Fear coloured the King's mind when Idril and Glorfindel did not return when days stretched into weeks.</p><p class="western">Maeglin admits he used it to get his way, convincing his uncle that as a warden of the mines he knows the immediate area around Tumladen far better than anyone else. Well-timed rumours about Princess Idril's disappearance authorized him to chain his uncle to his desk, declaring that the city could not risk losing its King in such difficult times.</p><p class="western">For once, all Lords agreed with him.</p><p class="western">"How are you? Are you injured?" Turgon jumps to embrace his nephew. Lómion appears unharmed, but the cloak and the armour hides all kinds of cuts and bruises.</p><p class="western">"I am well, uncle. Nothing that a night of undisturbed rest and a hot bath will not mend." Large hands settle on his shoulders.</p><p class="western">Last year, Maeglin would have wriggled out of the embrace quickly enough. However, the tense months of fruitless search where Turgon barely slept at the thought of never seeing either of his children again had brought down a few walls.</p><p class="western">Instead of preventing Maeglin from leaving, Turgon threw himself into bettering the defences of the city. After a public announcement of Idril's vanishing, the King took charge of internal security.</p><p class="western">Guilt drove him, having ignored the message Ulmo brought him via Tuor three years ago. The horrifying losses at the Nirnaeth Arnoediad and the death of his brother Findekáno fresh in mind, had driven Turgon to unexpected new heights.</p><p class="western">So far, Maeglin never breached the subject of leaving Gondolin with him. There had been no hope of tasking his uncle with such a project as long as he clung to the hope of finding Idril. Simply lost, or in the company of Green Elves at best.</p><p class="western">Before they entered the palace, Maeglin took a moment to check upon his cousin again. Her mind was in turmoil, the intense pain kept her from slipping into the healing trance despite being unconscious already.</p><p class="western">With Idril in this state, Maeglin is trapped between two bad options. He struggles to determine what is worse, revealing the recent events to his uncle and shatter his hopes indefinitely or diving back into Idril's mind.</p><p class="western">The truth is that he has to do both. There is no one in Gondolin with skills in oswanë on par with him. The talent allows him to pour awareness into his weapons, craft armours that play with the perception of those looking upon it, and create enchanted objects. Daggers glowing white and blue in the presence of a malicious mind are harmless in comparison to the projects that Maeglin has thought of lately.</p><p class="western"><em> I am not a healer. I am more likely to harm her than bring her relief. </em>Maeglin shoves the panicked thought back into the deep well it crawled out of. At the bottom of that mental put rest the memories he has of his father, and Maeglin has no intention of dragging them to the surface.</p><p class="western">"Lómion? Please tell me what's wrong," Turgon asks, gently leading his sister-son to a chair. Despite how much Maeglin has grown since Turgon first laid eyes on him, he still appears small and tired.</p><p class="western">The King lets his hands rest on Lómion's forearm and shoulder, unwilling to let go.</p><p class="western">Maeglin takes a deep breath. Prolonging the inevitable will not make it any less painful. He shudders at the thought of touching his cousin's thoughts again and it is cruel of him that telling the King of Idril will allow him a few hours of respite before his expertise becomes the last resort.</p><p class="western">"We found her."</p><p class="western">Keeping his eyes on his hands is easier than looking at his uncle. Maeglin tries to distract himself by pulling the gloves from his fingers, but at such close proximity the storm clouding Turukáno's soul feels as if he's struck by lightning.</p><p class="western">Trembling hands dig into his flesh, but Maeglin does not mind the bruises the King leaves on his wrists.</p><p class="western">"She is alive," Maeglin answers the question Turgon cannot bring himself to utter out loud.</p><p class="western">Maeglin grounds himself, glad for Anguirel's weight on his back. A single mental nudge is all that is needed. In an instant, the sword shields him from the waves of Turgon's emotions crashing down upon him. Only when Maeglin is secured on a stony empty island in the midst of a howling sea does he look back up.</p><p class="western">Salgant often complains that the King is difficult to read, and more than once Maeglin has scoffed at the notion. His sharp eyes allow him to read where exactly tension gathers in his uncle's body. Depending on the location, he can determine with a single glance if grief, responsibilities, or insecurity ails him.</p><p class="western">At this moment, it is everything at once.</p><p class="western">The Elf in front of him now is far from the person who offered his blessings when Maeglin confessed his relationship with Tuor last summer.</p><p class="western">That afternoon, which they spend in the shade of a big tree outside the city, Turgon had been laughing. Centred in himself and confident, clarity driving his thoughts and resembling a blue river with rich and clear mountain water. Never before Maeglin had felt so hopeful and fearless around him. Finally he could see the line between the King of Gondolin and his uncle.</p><p class="western">Idril vanishing into thin air weeks later turned the tides again, but Maeglin refused to let go. He clung to the parts his uncle laid open for him, balancing emotions whenever Turgon struggled to do it himself. When his uncle became anxious and unsure, Maeglin's speeches before the council turned confident and assertive. When the King fixated on his work, driving himself beyond his limits, Maeglin isolated him in his study until he was able to get a grip on his emotions again.</p><p class="western">The headaches beating on Maeglin’s temples like a dwarf on a drum before a battle he learned to live with. Whenever he could get away with it, Anguirel rested on his back, whispering soothing words into his ears and silencing the world around him. Even in the chambers of the King, where weapons have to be hung up before entering, Maeglin had found ways to ensure the despair, loathing, and pain he felt were only his own.</p><p class="western">Anguirel is powerful. Walls of stone and the distance of three horse-lengths are not enough to keep it from wrapping itself around Maeglin's mind like an ancient and patient snake, calm and willing to endure periods of hunger.</p><p class="western">"Is she ...," Turgon gasps, stuttering as he fought with overwhelming relief and nightmares of the last months. "Just tell me if she ..."</p><p class="western">Despite Anguirel's hissing, an image flashes in Maeglin's mind. It is a deliberate message, a translation where spoken words fall short.</p><p class="western">
  <em> ... felt brown hair, once red and bright ... rough skin that should be unmarked and not riddled with bruises, cuts, and welts ... </em>
</p><p class="western">Maeglin blinks. It takes a moment until he recognizes the Elf from the memory. He has met Maedhros, before and after the battle that is now called Nirnaeth Arnoediad. His heart beats a little faster. The hour of the meeting had been ill-timed, yet the one positive development he took away from the carnage around surrounding them.</p><p class="western">"No, my cousin does not appear to have suffered the torment that the enemy brought upon Lord Maedhros," Maeglin says. But he crushes the flicker of hope in his uncle's eyes before it takes root on a ground that has been fertilized with tears. "But her mind is dark. I dared not to dig deeper after sending her to sleep. I am afraid she did not even recognize us when we stumbled upon her."</p><p class="western">Devastation shimmers in Turgon's eyes.</p><p class="western">To Maeglin's surprise, tears freely run down the King's face before he takes three deep breaths and staggers onto his feet. He is visibly shaken but remains as calm and collected as possible.</p><p class="western">"Take me to her. The state my daughter is in will be better and worse than anything I have dreamed about in the last months," the King says, and for his own sake, Maeglin pretends that it is a command. "Seeing her again will replace old nightmares with new ones but as long as she is alive there is the possibility that I can help her."</p><p class="western">Aching knees and sore muscles protest when he rises. The armour is unimaginably heavy on his shoulders, but it protects him somewhat from the cold wind howling through the empty corridors. The black mountains hover quietly above them, peeking through the windows like concerned spirits witnessing the pair walk to the chamber where the sleeping Princess lies.</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">Galdor bows deeply before his King and the Prince to hide his expression. The healer had chased him out, allowing only Aeglos to remain since the Elf swore an oath to Lord Angannon to remain at the Princess' side. Because of this, the healer could not order him to leave even when they started cutting the rags from the Princess' body.</p><p class="western">At any other time Galdor would sing, lightening the room with his voice and the strength of Tumladen below them. But tonight the words are stuck in his throat.</p><p class="western">He envies Duilin. The Chief of the House of the Swallow is guarding the entrance himself, insisting on not allowing anyone to become further involved until the King gives new orders.</p><p class="western">Galdor has busied himself running errands. Since the healer is not allowed to call upon servants, he has fetched towels and warm water - three times by now. The bowls he has poured down the sink carried dark waters. Dirt and mud, of course, and blood.</p><p class="western">There was enough of it that it reflected the light of the candles. It was also fresh and not dried up.</p><p class="western">Galdor wonders where it came from, for he saw no obvious wounds on the Princess.</p><p class="western">Since waiting for time to pass feels like mountains being ground down into sand, Galdor searches the cupboards restlessly. Aeglos is in his travel grab, the state of his armour highlighting the necessity of wearing it.</p><p class="western">The other Elf is silent when Galdor places a bundle of fresh clothes next to him, avoiding looking at Lady Idril at all cost. The best he can do is to pretend that this is a different woman. A traveller in need, found by the guards, and not the King's beloved child.</p><p class="western">It has been a long time since Galdor was confronted with a lost soul. Born in Beleriand, having grown up with its horrors and yet not comfortable with King Elu's rule in Doriath, he joined the Elf Lord from the other side of the ocean. Building a safe haven, a beautiful city, and living in peace for centuries allowed him to breathe freely.</p><p class="western"><em> We light the city with lamps and candles, trying to forget that the darkness is closing in like a pack of hungry wolves, </em>Galdor thinks.</p><p class="western">The hours grows old and westward the waning moon gleams fitfully through the breaking clouds.</p><p class="western">Heavy footsteps approach the closed doors and their sound is worse than the scream of the dying that Galdor has tried to silence every time since he rode into battle twenty-five years ago.</p><p class="western">
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</p><p class="western">Duilin is an archer and responsible for the security of the city. Enchantments hide Gondolin well enough, but the task of ensuring the safety of its citizens never ends. Each Lord has added a layer of protection, but it is Duilin’s call to oversee them.</p><p class="western">There had been decades when looking after Gondolin required little more than circling its borders and making sure roots breaking through the surface did not interfere with the net that had been thrown over Tumladen. Only the eagles nesting high above them in the mountains possess eyes sharp enough to see through the illusions.</p><p class="western">However, the many pathways and canyons surrounding them forced Duilin to create an extensive force. Members of his House carry the responsibility to watch the gullies and ravines. There are plenty for the enemy to slip through. Centuries of standing duty had allowed him to create a map. So far, Duilin and his Swallows are the only people allowed to leave Tumladen without requiring a permit from the King.</p><p class="western">Until the Princess disappeared, Duilin had it not thought such an act to be possible. When wandering around Tumladen, chancing upon the borders happens often enough. Duilin has picked up more than a few bold travellers, often young and naive, but happy in the end to be shown the way back to safety.</p><p class="western">For weeks Duilin believed he would find the Princess in some alcove, or perhaps in a nest built of twigs and green leaves. He searched every drain, every cave, every den and cavern. None showed the usual signs of inhabitance, forcing Duilin to admit the Princess must have left the Valley unseen.</p><p class="western">Shifting under the anger and the worry of the King, Duilin cursed Glorfindel.</p><p class="western">The Lord of the Golden Flower must be responsible, for it had always been his talents that hid the city from plain view. Between the Princess and Glorfindel’s voice, it is not unreasonable to believe for them to have slipped past his guards.</p><p class="western">Duilin used to imagine how they would return, clothes rumbled and hands interwoven, leaves in their hair as they giggle. For what else but lovers being blind and stupid could have let Glorfindel and Idril slip past his guards.</p><p class="western">Duilin is furious, for weeks. His life is difficult enough with the Prince digging deeper each day, creating new ways for the enemy to get in. At least <em> he </em>is kind enough to involve Duilin, letting him post guards near the mines - either the one still rich with glimmering rocks he has no use for or the empty abandoned caves he has to keep an eye on.</p><p class="western">Ecthelion's shadow grows longer each day and his desperation is what finally makes Duilin cave. A few days later the Prince rides out in search for the Princess.</p><p class="western">The glance Duilin shares with Maeglin is an admission to what he expects to find.</p><p class="western">Traces of heavy boots, bones, and torn clothing.</p><p class="western">It would be a relief, a sign to stop searching. Weeks turn into months, snow making most pathways out of the valley impassable. The Prince keeps to his journeys, ordering the archers to spread out and Duilin himself to increase the numbers. The King barely registers that there are fewer people walking in and out of the mines each day. Neither does he notices how Duilin carefully maps the Mountains of Crissaegrin, their southern border.</p><p class="western">When winter turns into spring again, Duilin follows the snowmelt until he reaches the Pass of Anach.</p><p class="western">Neither he nor the Prince ever utter the words <em> evacuation </em> or <em> retreat </em>out loud, but they prepare for the eventuality.</p><p class="western">"My King," Duilin bows as the son and brother of two fallen High Kings approaches the door. "Do you have new orders for me?"</p><p class="western">Since last winter King Turgon had been more approachable, openly discussing the security of Gondolin with Duilin. It never goes as far as planning where they should go if the enemy approaches, but at least their King is no longer blind towards the possibility of an attack.</p><p class="western">"Remain alert. Look for shadows moving in silence, for whispers that chills even the most battle-hardened warrior," the King orders and Duilin is pleased that the fear in his eyes is not directed at his sickly daughter. "We cannot allow ourselves to be distracted."</p><p class="western">"Should the city be informed?" Duilin thinks about how far the orders go.</p><p class="western">The news of Princess Idril's return cannot be kept a secret for long and gathering the Lords will alarm Gondolin soon enough. Duilin trusts his archers, for they have kept the pathways a secret for centuries, but their families are bound to notice their unease eventually.</p><p class="western">"Not immediately." The King's eyes darken. "Starless nights lay ahead. Let the healers assess the state of my child first, but I swear I will inform them myself as soon as I have words of substance to spread."</p><p class="western">"We are aiming for three days of secrecy," the Prince adds, joining in this reassurance. With his armour dark and dull and his weary face and grave, his eyes remain the most vital part of him. They are clear and gleaming, filled with perilous thrill that deafens any last doubts in Duilin's soul that they can ever go back to the days of sluggish peace. "If we cannot keep the Princess' return in confidence, then direct all efforts into defence of the city. We will need food, blankets, and weapons instead of energy wasted on well-wishes."</p><p class="western">
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Dreamkeeper</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
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        <span>Aeglos pushes himself from the wall he has been leaning against, unfurling the arms he had crossed above his chest when the doors open and Lord Angannon and King Turgon step inside. He had refrained from pacing while the healer cleaned Lady Idril, keeping his eyes on the woman to ensure the washing did not cause her any pain. </span>
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        <span>The King does not appear happy to have his daughter bared to the world, but he soon forgets his anger, settling down on the bed. He hesitates to grab her hand, a wise decision given how he battles with his emotions. </span>
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        <span>"You are relieved from your duty," his Lord says. "Report to Mala, he will provide you with food and a bath. Do not return for the next two days, but if you are interested in remaining the Princess's guard come find me." </span>
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        <span>"Yes, my Lord." Aeglos nods, long practice keeping him from bowing. His Lord is lenient with the stiff royal protocol. "I will think about it, but may I ask why you made the offer? There must be others willing to act as the Princess' escort." </span>
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        <span>"Certainly, but right now you have seen her at her worst." Maeglin nods in his cousin's direction. A thin white blanket covers her lower body. The visible rest is far from beautiful. The ribs beneath the Princess' breasts are showing. "You also have no previous contact with her and you have my unquestioned trust." </span>
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        <span>Aeglos allows himself a grim smile. He joined Maeglin's House of the Mole after the Prince arrived in Gondolin and made his life bearable. There are quite a few born into the city who wished to leave, yet were denied by the King. These discontent souls had rallied around the Prince, who was secretly just as unhappy about it. </span>
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        <span>Recent events had soured his dreams of travelling through Beleriand. Instead of offering his blade to the High King, the eagles brought him to Gondolin. </span>
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        <span>Dreams shattered long before the Princess vanished. Aeglos is almost grateful for the changes in the last year. Riding into freedom is worth the dangers they face. </span>
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        <span>"My Lord, should I wake the Atan? He will worry if you do not return soon," Aeglos asks before he steps out of the door. "No doubt that he will worry if the patrol retires without you alongside them."</span>
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        <span>His Lord's eyes show pain and exhaustion for a moment, before sinking to the bottom of his nocturnal soul. </span>
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        <span>"I'd be grateful," Maeglin nods. Aeglos is still wearing his armour, resembling his Lord in everything but the fact he is now off duty and soon to be the recipient of a hot bath and hours of rest. Both of these things will elude the Prince for hours, far into the next day if Lady Idril's faint figure on the bed is an indication. "Please tell Tuor that I will return by midday at the latest. He may come and fetch me if I am not back at noon." </span>
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        <span>Aeglos adjusts the bundle of clean clothes, Lord Galdor’s desperate attempt to avoid the new reality carved into the Princess' hollow cheeks. </span>
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        <span>His Lord's appearance does not divulge a great deal of vulnerability, but Aeglos can read loneliness from the way his friend's back stiffens. The King's long frame folded above his daughter, in a fruitless endeavor to shield her from the harsh world, declares the reason of Lord Maeglin's remorseful aversion. </span>
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        <span>"We stand with you, Maeglin," Aeglos swears. </span>
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        <span>The words are a promise, spoken because the Prince's sword is too powerful for Aeglos to pass by. What he does not need is a confirmation from the rest of the House of Moles. They are loyal to their Lord, having joined him after the other Houses had been in existence for centuries already yet never represented a home. </span>
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        <span>The early morning wind blows through the valley to meet him. Maeglin ducks his head when his fingers grasp the door. He greets the warmth inside with a sigh, staggering down the hall. Fire crackles in the hearth, eating at the wood burning there, and Maeglin's stomach growls. </span>
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        <span>Though he cannot remember when he last ate, he focuses on getting out of his armor first. It is light, nothing that bothers him while riding out. But after weeks the smell is an irritation to his nose. Dried sweat and dirt make it difficult to peel it off him. </span>
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        <span>Next Maeglin wrestles with the knots and laces and shakes the boots of his feet. The gloves follow quickly and his cloak gets draped over the chair. But Anguirel remains close, since the last three days are still weighing on his mind.</span>
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        <span>With his weapons he is more careful. Maeglin runs his fingers over the two daggers and carefully inspects the leather harness that keeps Anguirel on his back. Satisfied at not finding any damage, he finishes undressing until he slumps back onto the chair in nothing but his trousers. </span>
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        <span>He pulls one foot onto the chair and rests his forehead against the knee, closing the eyes for a moment. </span>
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        <span>That he does not twitch when Tuor places a hand on his naked shoulder is evidence of how close they have become in the last three years. </span>
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        <span>"Do you want to eat first or should I ready the bath for you?" Tuor asks, rubbing his thumb over Maeglin's bare neck. </span>
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        <span>The black hair is greasy and tangled in knots, far from the soft, silk-like sensation that Tuor loves so much to run his hands through. Maeglin's hair is long and sleek, at least when he is not leading search troops through the mountains or barricading himself in his forge for days. </span>
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        <span>"Dinner first, if you do not mind." Maeglin leans back, searching blindly for Tuor's hand. It feels warm and real under his own. "I do know if I can be bothered to grab a bite later." </span>
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        <span>"You do look tired enough to fall asleep in the bath tub." </span>
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        <span>Tuor places a kiss on Maeglin's temple before pouring his lover a drink. He puts the teapot right next to the cup, hoping it will be empty when he returns with a plate. </span>
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        <span>"I am sorry if Aeglos woke you," Maeglin says. He rubs a hand over his eyes. </span>
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        <span>The first cup of tea he downs quickly, barely tasting the herbs. Nor does the heat disturbs him; instead it banishes the cold and fills his stomach. </span>
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        <span>"Do not worry, I am grateful you send him. It is certainly better than laying awake for hours before waking up to a bed that is still too empty." </span>
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        <span>Tuor pulls up a chair since Maeglin shows no signs of moving. Aeglos did not say much when he came with the news of Maeglin’s late arrival, unwilling to spread the secret. The expression in Maeglin’s eyes now is enough though. Tuor learned to read between the lines a long time ago, having grown up with the Sindar near the coast. Besides, logic dictates that Maeglin would hardly be late if the patrol returned empty-handed. </span>
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        <span>"Thank you," Maeglin mumbles - maybe he is talking about the tea, or maybe he is thanking Tuor for something else entirely. His lips curl upwards, turning his expression from grim and tired into fragile weakness. </span>
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        <span>It is no surprise to Tuor that his lover takes his face in rough hands and pulls him forward into a kiss. </span>
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    <span>
      <span>
        <span>His own anxiety melts away and Tuor opens his mouth, lets the second kiss grow more passionate. Arms that have been holding a sword more often than a hammer lately grab him. Their hold is firm, betraying the strength of an Elf who is used to physical work. Tuor moans when Maeglin picks him up and drags him into his lap until he is straddling his hips. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"I missed you," Maeglin rasps. He still has one hand in Tuor's hair, as if he is afraid the Atan could run away - or disappear like his cousin. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Tuor's answer is lost in a silent moan for Maeglin’s other hand seizes his inner thigh, hard enough to leave bruises. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"I would prefer it if we take this activity to a bed," he finally manages to say. Tuor ignores his own trembling thighs. "Far more comfortable for what you have in mind." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The lust darkening Maeglin's eyes is unmistakable. It would not be the first time that they do not make it upstairs, which usually ends with Maeglin bending him over the table or pressing him into a wall. Not that Tuor does not love the treatment. After his long journey to feel comfortable with a sexual relationship, he rejoices in being able to trust his lover, who had waited for him and shown a patience only Elves are capable of. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Today, though, Tuor listens to his instincts, the voice that whispers his lover is only seeking a distraction from his own pain. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Okay, later then." Maeglin growls his dark promise. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Tuor slides off, his body unwilling to part with the intimate embrace. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Food and bath first," he says and takes his lover's hand. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>As expected, said </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <em>
        <span>later</span>
      </em>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span> never happens. Maeglin's eyes are small slits by the time he crawls into their bed and Tuor joins him. He is not as used to being awake at odd hours as his Elvish partner, but he still slept fitfully the entire time Maeglin was away. It is not much of a struggle to go back to bed, especially since Aeglos had woken him in the middle of the night. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Now the sun has risen, turning the crimson smear on the mountains into golden reflections and Tuor is tired enough himself that he has no problem with savouring Maeglin's gentle embrace. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>He contents himself with knowing that they are sharing a bed again. In the last year even that had been difficult since Maeglin was forced to keep a different schedule, turning to sleeping in odd hours between his many duties. More than once Tuor had pulled a blanket over him when he found his lover napping on the couch, at the kitchen table, or at his desk. Even on the floor on one memorable occasion, after Maeglin had nodded off in between pulling off his boots. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Despite his own exhaustion and the lack of sleep after being woken in the middle of the night, Tuor lies awake. He fights against falling asleep, wishing to enjoy Maeglin's embrace for a while. His lover had sagged into the pillows, dead to the world as soon as his body hit the mattress. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>What makes Tuor's heart flutter is how the Prince wrapped himself around him. His forehead rests against the top of Tuor's head, one arm covering his chest while their legs bundled together ensure Tuor cannot leave without rousing Maeglin from his slumber. It is a possessive hold, a quiet admission to their relationship they seldom show in public. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Soon enough though Tuor is snoring contentedly, unable to resist the warmth and safety of this embrace any longer. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>They reappear hours in public later, padding down the stairs. Barefoot in Maeglin's case while Tuor is rubbing his red-shot eyes. He has either slept too much or not nearly enough. With a silent groan, he tries to loosen the knots in his back. When his stretching does not quite work, Maeglin reaches over to place his hand on his back. The fingers are warm, sharing a gift with nothing more than a touch. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>As nice as it feels, Tuor would still prefer it if they had more time. Him, spread out on the bed while Maeglin uses his hands to knead his back into a soft aching sensation, and Tuor inevitably rubbing himself against the pillows placed under his hips, lost between submission and release. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>When Tuor finds Galdor already seated at their kitchen table he guesses the reason why Maeglin pulled away after one sweet kiss instead deepening it. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>One tea cup rests on the table, steam rising quietly into the air. Galdor pours two more, pushing them towards Maeglin and his lover. Tuor accepts the odd situation, unable to remember if the other Elf has ever entered their house before. He has only irregular contact with the Lord of Gondolin and Maeglin prefers to visit them instead of inviting guests into his house. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Maeglin is still half-naked, leaving little to the imagination. And given how he slouches in his chair, shoving his naked toes under Tuor's thigh when they sit down, this kills any possible doubt that Galdor might have, wondering if they are more than two lonely souls in a place not made for them. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The touch is innocent, for Maeglin has done far worse. But it still burns, like the Prince is staking a claim and no longer caring about propriety. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Inform me about the recent developments, Galdor." Today, Maeglin leaves no room for questioning his orders. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>On occasion the other Lords of Gondolin seem to forget that Maeglin is the Prince. Maybe it is a result of the matter of his arrival or the fact that in a closed-off society like Gondolin's, its people found other ways besides birth and blood relations to gain status. But Lady Idril's disappearance had quieted many voices when weeks of uproar showed the short extent of their influence, leaving only the actual Lords and their Captains with true knowledge about what happened. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Especially beyond the borders. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>They eat their meal while Galdor relates the events of the last hours. He does not specifically notify Tuor about the Princess' return, probably assuming Maeglin told him already or will send him out in case he didn't, but from his tale Tuor can deduce what happened easily enough. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Healer Irilta wishes for you to be present when they move on to a deeper and more in-depth examination. They believe in being cautious," Galdor says. His gaze drops to his hands and he clings to his cup, desperate to hold onto something solid, even if it's only a piece of porcelain. "I have not been present at the time, but Healer Irilta reported the Princess' attempts to fight back." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Maeglin's neutral expression settles into a grim gaze. Tuor feels how his toes curl up under his thigh, the only hint of his darkening thoughts. With a short order he sends Galdor away.</span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>It is an excuse, but one born from kindness. Having suffered from slavers for years during his captivity in his youth, Tuor supports that decision. Galdor may feel useless right now, but the Elf is still in possession of an innocence neither of them can no longer claim to have. Tuor himself has seen the consequences of slavery, what it can to do the kindest people. It happened to himself. He lived in the wilderness for a reason, rather than turning south and searching for sanctuary in a settlement. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Shame and dark thoughts find him too often, even now with Maeglin at his side - Maeglin, who has shown a far deeper understanding than Tuor thought possible. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>For the first time, he wonders where the Prince learned that understanding from. Gondolin pretends maltreatment only happens to Orcs. In the last few years when Maeglin and his people taught Tuor Quenya - since Sindarin is not the favoured language among the Noldor, cut off from Beleriand as they are - he realized that they have no word for </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <em>
        <span>rape</span>
      </em>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>. Only roundabout descriptions, using an odd combination of 'to seize' and 'offense'. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Sindarin, Tuor knows, is far more eloquent. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Let's get dressed. The King expects us within an hour and I do not like Healer Irilta to wait unnecessarily," Maeglin says. He leaves his half-eaten breakfast on the table, pushing his plates away. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Do you want me to be there?" Tuor studies Maeglin's back. He imagines running his hands through the unbound hair, tugging at it as he drags him back to bed. Unfortunately, this is not an option in this dark moment. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The thought is distasteful for its bad timing, and Tuor chastises himself for even considering it. Having experienced abuse himself at the hands of his captors, he has a good idea of what happened to Lady Idril, so he does not need to know any specifics. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Maeglin nods, distracted. "I would like you to come with me. If approaching my cousin brings forth too many unhappy memories, than you can still offer your opinion to Healer Irilta. They will be grateful for advice of any kind " </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Of course I will help you. I admit it will be painful, should they ask about my own experiences, but I know that you will be there." With this, Tuor reaches for Maeglin's hands. He leans into the touch when the Elf kisses his forehead in a silent promise. "How could I hide when I can ease the Princess's suffering?" </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"My uncle as well," Maeglin mumbles under his breath when he lets go and they head upstairs to get dressed. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>They emerge into rich afternoon sunlight. Deep green-grassed hills rise in every direction they face. To the south behind a thickening curtain of low hanging clouds waits Gondolin. Shadows crowd the buildings and the King's palace disappears into the embrace of the mountains towering behind it. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Usually the distance between the House of the Mole and the King's palace allows for a pleasant walk. The Prince' settlement is just beyond the official city borders, due to the wide array of forges that Maeglin shares with Rog. Other craftsmen filled the gaps soon after realizing they will be left in peace around here. Some only rent a few rooms for a single project, happy to indulge in their passion without having to bother with starting from scratch. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Today the streets seem empty and Tuor is glad for the chill, since it allows them to pull up their hoods and wander the districts unrecognized. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>It is less surprising that Maeglin leads him through the gardens, through back doors meant for the kitchen staff, It seems that he means for them to avoid being seen. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Tuor is friendly to those few people they meet once inside, but Maeglin's expression is enough to scare anyone away. His lover cannot help himself, Tuor knows - this is Maeglin’s way of coping, so it is up to Tuor to distract the maids and the cook as they pass. With Lady Idril's fate being unknown and her return a secret, the city already looks to their Prince for answers. There is hope each time he returns from patrol, though the schedule is known to only a few in order to keep the speculations to a minimum. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Maeglin takes a deep breath once they are alone again. "It will only get worse once the King makes the announcement." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Stress and fear are bad companions," Tuor admits, nodding. "Gondolin has little experience with crisis." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"They usually deal with them by pretending the events never happened." Rage fills Maeglin's eyes. Undoubtedly he is thinking about his parents and how Eöl's name was never mentioned again once his corpse had rotted away, leaving behind nothing but bones. "Well, until the Nirnath Arnoediad. Returning with a decimated force is impossible to ignore." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Twenty-five years are a lot to a man, and Tuor himself was born the year that Maeglin is discussing. But for the Eldar, two decades mean little. Only recently have the grieving families recovered, with Turo’s own arrival bringing the change the King had been working towards with only minimal success before, since his own pain over his brother's death kept him from being the vibrant leader that Gondolin so desperately needed. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The children born in the last years had been a sign of hope. A careful admission to cherish life instead of drifting through the city, drained and indifferent. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>But now, the unknown fate of the Princess brought out the worst in the people of Gondolin once more. Tuor had watched friendly neighbours turn against each other in fights until the King was forced to settle the arguments himself. Desperation ran down the stones like rain the autumn, cold and unceasing. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Tuor does not look forward to the next weeks. So far, Maeglin has not shared his thoughts with him. He likes to think it is because Maeglin knows that Tuor will support him regardless of his plans. But the truth is that they discussed the King's refusal to ignore Ulmo's message before, during long nights after their lovemaking or during dinner - whenever they were alone and in the mood to talk about worst-case scenarios. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <em>
        <span>I would not be surprised if he has made arrangements already. </span>
      </em>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Tuor settles behind Maeglin with ease when they approach the private wing of Lady Idril. They pass exactly one guard, but the empty corridors speak of the true extent of the King's protection. All staff has probably been quietly banished, sent home with excuses. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Galdor is nowhere to be seen. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>A raw-boned Elf opens the door after Maeglin knocks twice. Tuor has met them before - healer Irilta attended to him and Voronwë after they entered Gondolin - but to this day, he cannot guess their gender. Luckily they do not seem to mind mishaps. From what Tuor has learned of Irilta, the Elf is task-driven and too focused on their patients’ well-being to waste time on pronouns. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>They are a pale and vicious ghost, haunting the wounded with hisses, wide eyes, and large, heavy steps. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Lómion, please come inside. Bring the Atan with you, he is allowed to stay if he is quiet," Irilta says in greeting, stepping aside to let them enter. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Tuor is too occupied staring at the tiny figure in the huge bed to wonder about the familiarity between the Healer and the Prince. His approach is silent and careful. Though the King is nowhere to be seen, Tuor remains at the end of the bed. He does not wish to cause trouble by accident and one glance at the Princess is enough to grasp how fragile she is. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Behind him, Maeglin and the Healer are speaking in hushed tones. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Tuor, could you find the King? While he is supposed to be in his chambers, resting, I wager he is already in his study." Maeglin grunts, stopping next to Tuor and placing a hand on his shoulders </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The Prince has rightly guessed how much the sight of Idril’s state affects the Atan, both out of sympathy and because he too has suffered through similar ordeals. At least, if such kind of tragedy can be seen as such, there are no obvious marks of torture. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The Elves of Gondolin might see Lady Idril's unmarked skin as reason to be relieved, but Tuor knows better. The complete lack of cuts, burns, and scars mean the damage lingers beneath the skin. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Yes, I will even attempt to get him to eat. He is too much like you in this regard," Tuor promises and heads out. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"What have you found that you think it is necessary to tell me first?" Maeglin asks, turning to Healer Irilta. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>There are not many people he considered friends and teachers after arriving in Gondolin, but the Healer is one of them. Irilta's attempts to save his mother are seared into Maeglin's mind. The flight from Nan Elmoth and the journey to Gondolin are a blur he barely remembers, for not once his mother stopped and looked back. The events following their arrival didn't help and he never examined them too closely once he settled into his new, unwanted life. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Only Healer Irilta stood out, allowing Maeglin to remain close to his mother's side when they chased out anyone else. They had also questioned him about the plant life in Nan Elmoth, attempting to create an antidote out of nothing. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>In Irilta's face, and in his own mind if Maeglin is being honest with himself, for the thought is plain and clear like a lamp lighting the night, the Prince sees the fear of another failure. Lady Irissë died from an infection of the wound and though the poison was drained from her body, the remaining damage was too much for her weakened body to handle. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Until today the Healer believes they could have saved Lady Irissë, had they more time, more knowledge or acted faster instead of wasting days to fight the poison Eöl's blade had been laced with. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>It took Maeglin just as long to consider his mother's death might have been inevitable. Some nights he hates himself, for a lot of things, but never he has blamed the kind Elf healer who held him when his mother finally succumbed her injuries. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Irilta stiffens at the question. They walk around the bed and settle near the pillows. In the afternoon light, washed and clothed no longer in rags, Idril looks even worse. One ragged traveler on the road is sight common enough, but in finer clothes again, Idril can no longer be mistaken for an unlucky traveler. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>This frail creature with such sunken cheeks and ashen skin is far from the Princess who liked needling him, believing it the only way to get her cousin out of his forge. In the past, Maeglin resented her for her teasing. Strange, how quickly such trivialities evaporate in the light of horror. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"I have finished the physical examination a few hours ago. Her mind I left untouched, you are far more skilled in oswanë than I am and I thought it best to let her sleep instead prodding invisible wounds," Irilta says and pulls back the covers. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Galdor reported she attacked you?" Maeglin angles his head. He keeps his hands clasped behind his back, stretching his senses. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>He is relieved to find his cousin in a deep healing trance. She was hallucinating and delusional when they found her. Now it will not take much to transform her withered, cracked face into savagery. To another she might appear helpless, but Maeglin knows his cousin's mind. The fissures in her soul are deep and filled with a power not her own. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"She did. Lady Idril kicked out when I removed what little garment she wore underneath the rags." Irilta shakes their head and Maeglin understands why his uncle is not allowed to hear this. Not from Irilta, for the Healer is blunt and clinical as they describe how Idril had reacted to a misunderstood action, even when unconscious. "Panic made her attempts of self-defense formidable, but it was out of reflex and therefore uncoordinated. Had she been awake, I would have had more trouble subduing her."</span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Maeglin shuts his eyes, concentrating on taking deep breaths. He cannot collapse, so he shoves the horror he feels far away from him. In his memories, Eöl shrieks, waking from a nightmare that had not been uncommon. His son’s untrained powers had forced the Lord of Nan Elmoth to finally talk in order to spare his son more grief. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Much later, Maeglin found the same pain in Tuor. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Stumbling upon Idril had been a lucky chance, </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <em>
        <span>perhaps, </span>
      </em>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>which he had not questioned further during the first hours. Riding back to Gondolin in the cover of darkness allowed suspicions to come forth. He knows the nature of Orcs, for the mountains are not completely empty of them. The mines reach far and deep, and they cross paths on occasion. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Often enough what to expect when one of the mine workers goes missing. It is a kindness to find their body. Death through a rough blade is the quickest, kindest option. Mangled bodies, nothing but bones because Orcs do not discriminate between Elves and animals, are still not worse than those they find alive. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Maeglin clenches his hands into fists, glad Tuor is not here to see him struggle with his wrath. He waits for the Healer to speak up again, unable to bring himself to ask. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"The only scars I found are on her inner thighs. Claw marks instead of knives, in case you wonder." Irilta bares his teeth. "I had to restrain her. I will be thankful if you keep that out of your report to the King, but it was necessary to check for injuries." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Did she not scream?" Maeglin asks. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Had she been awake, perhaps. Though her throat shows damage. She will barely be able to whisper once she wakes up, so I fear she had been screaming a lot in the past year." With this grim pronouncement, Irilta smashes Maeglin's glimmering hope that his cousin still has some fight left in her. "It was a small mercy that she only whimpered through the entire procedure, for I did not wish to call upon aid and further humiliate her." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Silence falls between them. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Thank you for your service," Maeglin says finally. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"So far I have done little, Lómion," Irilta says in a low tone. "The Princess is not dead, for there is no crushing absence as it happened to Lady Elenwë, but I have not saved her either. Scars and memories will hinder her physical recovery, for I </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <em>
        <span>have </span>
      </em>
    </span>
  </span>
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>found that she is malnourished, weakened, and injured. A single wound would certainly be easier to treat, for her state is just as delicate as your mother's had been."</span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Thanks, again. For your honesty at least," Maeglin says. He still cannot bring himself to approach Idril. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The news is difficult to swallow, but hardly a surprise. From the moment she vanished, Maeglin had feared he would not see her again. In a way, Idril has been dead for a year and the prospect that she might die may now be the only comfort they will receive in this matter. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>When he hears footsteps approach the door, the empty corridors carrying the echo and ensuring he gets a warning, Maeglin takes one last look at Idril and says goodbye. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>With great care he takes Irilta's place and takes Idril's small hand into his own. It is cold and far rougher than it is supposed to be. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The woman on the bed has little in common with the mean older sister figure Maeglin lost a year ago. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>He has lost a lot of people in his life. His parents, all kinds of opportunities to meet the rest of his family, and now the Elleth who lashed out at him after witnessing the death of her favourite aunt. The only mother figure she had, possibly the only one she remembers given how young Idril was when Elenwë died. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"Can you say where she was held captive the last year?" Maeglin forces himself to ask. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>As the Prince he needs to now, for while Idril's personal fate is horrible, there are more pressing matters to tend to. Thousands of innocent people remain, unaware of the danger they might be in. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Irilta's face turns to stone. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"I will not feign ignorance,” they tell him quietly. “Under the dirt, I found a lot of ashes and while her feet are in bad shape, they do not appear as if she lived in the wild for the last year. There is also the colour of her skin - I fear she had not seen the sun for a long time. The sunburns indicate how sensitive it has gotten to the light." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Maeglin lets go of Idril's hand and rises, sensing that his uncle could storm the room any minute now. "So you are trying to tell me that she was a prisoner of Angband." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>"I am confirming your suspicions," Irilta says. Their eyes flicker. "The chances are too high and the symptoms quite different than what I found on Lady Irrisë, who lived in a dark forest for over a century under questionable circumstances but never showed signs of decay." </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>Not to mention that if captured in this way then his cousin would have shouted her father's name from the rooftops, believing Turgon's name would invoke fear in her captors. It would not cross Idril's mind that her high birth could get her in more trouble than playing a commoner. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western">
  <span>
    <span>
      <span>
        <span>The door opens before Maeglin can comment on the healer's assessment. </span>
      </span>
    </span>
  </span>
</p><p class="western"> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Truth is, there is more in the working than I am posting right now, but this part is complete. Hence why not all your prompts made it into <i>this</i> little fic. They may turn up later. And great gods, I hope they do, because the storyline is turning out far longer than it was supposed to, but at least I have a plan now. Besides, I cannot let the golden opportunity of writing a semblance of a good Turgon &amp; Maeglin story out of my grasp. </p><p>Which means: I hope you liked it, because there will more.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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